


Trust Me

by wrothmothking



Category: Prey (Video Game 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not a Simulation, Autistic Morgan, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Masturbation, Morgan Yu Is A Typhon, Nonverbal Morgan, Personality Drift, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25873453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: This version of Morgan is...different. Far more so than expected. To keep him on the right path, January needs to ensure he remains Morgan's most trusted, most important.
Relationships: January/Morgan Yu
Kudos: 14





	Trust Me

Their first time happens on impulse.

Morgan has sequestered himself in a maintenance access tunnel, fortified turrets guarding the two entry points while he sleeps. January does not begrudge him the nap—it's been a traumatic, exhausting fifteen hours, and without rest the chance of failure skyrockets. Morgan is no use to anyone dead.

He's moaning, the first vocalizations he's made beyond the rare pained grunt. Normally, January would consider his breaking silence a good sign, but these circumstances instead disturb him. The gasping breaths, the fear-furrowed brow, the haunting cries, they make the typhon masquerading as his original self too human. Dangerous. January cannot lose focus. Everything here must die, including himself. There's no room for empathy.

(Morgan disagrees. He readily helps everyone he encounters, often courting death in so doing. He repairs turrets and operators even when he doesn't need them, avoids 'hurting' the corrupted machinery—instead immobilizing and hacking them into a docile state. A state in which they can't heal the burns or repair the suit, damages they caused while Morgan fumbled reloading instead of switching to pistol. It's as aggravating as it is sweet.)

A duo of phantoms nose around the area, trying to find the source of the noises. January ascertains their progress through the cameras. Satisfied by their fruitless efforts, he changes back to his view of Morgan—not even these cramped crawlspaces possess any privacy, given the value—and menace—of TranStar's work—and calls him.

Morgan slams a fist into the wall beside him as he scurries into a corner, sleep-fogged mind consumed by the instinct to safeguard his back as he faces whatever monstrosity has crept in after him. The ringing silences, the call connects, and January's smooth voice whispers reassurance and warning. The typhon outside may not've been able to figure out where he's gone, but they're on high alert all the same. Not that Morgan talks.

The wrench creaks in Morgan's grip—he's stronger than a human should be, even before the neuromods. January hums conciliatory trash, barely registering the words as they leave his vocalizer. They're at least effective; tension bleeds from Morgan's shoulders, the wrench clatters beside his thigh as he reflexively releases it, a scare he recovers from with a startled gasp and tired sigh.

“Relax, Morgan. They don't know where you are. Yet.”

Morgan scowls at the air.

“Understand that they would've figured it out had I left you in your slumber. As I'm sure you're aware, continuous noises are much easier to hone in on than the occasional—especially in a station falling apart.”

Accepting his explanation, Morgan shelves his annoyance and turns his attention to his weapons. He surveys each of them for damage. Counts ammo, double-checks. Even takes the free moment to optimize his gloo's incapacitation rate. For want of other things to occupy himself, January watches. Did their original copy have such expertise? Want to? It's all engineering, of a sort. Were his hands so deft, pale digits working with agonizing care as they repair the broken turret some doomed soul'd abandoned here?

It's irrelevant, in no way pertinent to his mission. The only Morgan he need concern himself with is the one he's depending on to see his purpose fulfilled.

And yet he continues to wonder.

Tasks complete, Morgan reclines, those hands now turning to himself. They test the bruise on his knuckles, the crack in his ribs, the twisted ankle. Minor injuries, but he should hunt for a medical operator soon. The hands stop curled over his thick, muscled thighs.

For one, insane moment, January expects him to...ah, self-service. But he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. He's in an unsecured location surrounded by hostiles and cadavers. Whoever their progenitor was before the experiment, this Morgan, at least, has a handful of morals. For the first time, he's disappointed.

The simulation of emotion brings forth the memory of Morgan's horror when he'd referred to himself as something less than a person—and, tangentially related, his warm laughter when January 'joked' that while the magnetosphere's failure would kill him, January would be fine. Fondness spreads through his circuits like a virus, mixing oddly with the lingering frustration. The feelings sit in the foreground of his consciousness, distracting. Disconcerting. This is not what he was made for. By anyone's view, the inclination taking hold of him would be repugnant.

However. Morgan cares about the surviving crew, about the operators and turrets and, most concernedly, about his brother's opinion. January sees it, the guilt and the need to please, in pursed lips and furrowed brow. He's not human, but Morgan was made to be like one in every way, including the downstairs and the accompanying endorphins.

He is so stressed; it would be good for him. If it strengthens their bond, elevates January's relationship with him, then it serves the mission. It is permissible.

“Morgan.”

The typhon freezes, closes the maintenance hatch he was about to exit through. He glances along the corridor, gaze failing to lock onto the microscopic lenses recording him.

“Could you sit for me? Exactly as you were.”

Confused, Morgan nevertheless complies. Mostly; his hands are curled in his lap, his legs straight out instead of spread in invitation. January's own fault for hesitating; alas, he'll make an even more perfect picture in a moment.

“Scans show your stress levels as being dangerously high. Originally, it wasn't a metric I considered, given the certainty of destruction looming over us both, but now that we've gotten to know each other, I've been paying more attention. And it's bad. I'd hate for you to die in the final stage from a heart attack of all things. You're not quite as young as you may feel.”

Unsurprisingly, Morgan doesn't comment, waiting patiently to hear the rest of his diatribe.

“I apologize for the oversight. Now that you've gone and endeared yourself to me, it feels almost like a betrayal.”

Morgan smiles, shy, ducking his chin into his chest to hide it. Elation and its darker cousin spark through January's circuits at the sight. Neither of them know enough of human anatomy to tell how much of what January said is true; the one definite lie is the scans—such information is unfortunately unavailable. The basic field medicine they're both well-versed in doesn't decree it impossible, and that's sufficient.

“We need to find a release for you that doesn't involve further endangerment. The only solution coming to mind is orgasm.”

Morgan blinks. Blushes. Shakes his head in denial.

January sighs. “There's nothing wrong with it, Morgan. It's a normal bodily function. Masturbation is simply another form of maintenance.”

Maybe Morgan is the type to fold easily to another's will, and maybe he simply trusts January. Maybe it's a matter of want.

Whatever his reasoning, Morgan readjusts himself: his hips shift up, his legs widen. He undoes his pants, tugs them down to mid-thigh. Exposing himself.

January's memories of having a flesh-and-blood body of is own are murky, distant. Morgan's cock is approximately seven inches in length, moderate width, and the faded pink of roses. Details lost in transfer, deemed unimportant.

Morgan is soft, hands tip-tapping his belly in an anxious stim, eyes on himself. Biting his lip.

Perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise, that the typhon, asked to explore his ( _not his_ ) body, is unsure how to proceed. The original must've done this on a regular basis, but that knowledge, no matter its depth, doesn't off-set this Morgan's total inexperience.

“Do you need help?”

Morgan flinches.

“Let me help you. That's what I'm here for, all I've ever wanted: to help you. Besides, it'll still be masturbation. Of a sort.”

The grimace he gets isn't the enthusiastic consent someone morale would require, but January takes it as his green light.

“Make a fist around your cock...Right hand,” he corrects. “Tighten it. _Tighter_ , Morgan.”

Morgan whimpers, face closing off in shame.

“It's alright. I have you; I'm here with you. Just listen to my voice.”

January waits, and after a rather long minute, those pretty brown eyes flutter open, and his jaw stops gritting his teeth together so hard they creak.

“We can stop at any time, Morgan. Say the word.”

Tellingly, he doesn't.

“Move your fist up and down. Slowly. Twist your wrist a little.”

Morgan groans, sweat beading at his temple.

“Faster, now. Don't be shy; put on a show for me. I want to see everything.”

No longer capable of sexual excitement, January is nonetheless pleased by Morgan's obedience. The sight of him falling apart. January makes note of every stuttered exhale, every twitch of muscle. Every sound he makes as he grows closer to the edge.

“You're hypersensitive. If I didn't know better, I'd think this your first time,” he teases.

A shiver, delectable. Morgan prostrates himself for the camera, hips in the air as he pumps his cock exactly as January'd directed.

“Rub the head. Keeping the pressure light, dig your nail into your slit. _Good._ Pump, _hard_ , but don't forget your head. You're doing well.”

Morgan whines, pitched high as the shrill croon of the malfunctioning intercom. His eyes lose focus, squint, his gut sucks in and his limbs go stiff-

“ _So well_. You can cum now.”

Choking on his breath, Morgan's body undulates, a frantic keening erupting from his throat, a milky white fluid from his cock.

He pants, blissed out on the aftermath. Again, his fingers tap-tap-tap, the energy this time content, relaxed. The pattern stops for a moment as he happy flaps, then resumes as he levers himself up into a kneeling position—another good look on him. Spent dick hanging heavy between his thighs, the material of his suit stretched snug by the positioning showing off the luscious lines of his form. His clean hand ruffles through his nest of hair, sweeping it from his face. Chest heaving. Smile bewitching. Using a hand towel borrowed from the fitness center, he cleans himself of sweat and spunk.

January shuts off the camera, Morgan's clean-up efforts affording him the distance to be unnerved by his fixation. It's too human. He's not allowed to be human—he can't be. Neither can the monster wearing their original's suit. They're both slated for death.

Reviewing his earlier processes, he 's relieved to find merit in his reasoning. He can work with this. There's not much time left anyhow. Tick-tock.

“Morgan. Thank you for trusting me. I apologize if I was overly controlling, or if I said anything unhelpful.”

A grunt is his only answer. Hesitant, January switches back to hs view of him.

Morgan is signing. It's shaky, but understandable, and the first attempt he's made to communicate beyond exaggerated facial expressions: 'No. Liked it.'

(Odd. The first Morgan Yu reportedly had issue with expressions. But then, he'd never had issue talking. Why this one's autism is manifesting in different traits is a question without an answer, though likely for the same as the personality drift side effect.)

While rather short, it's undeniable progress of their relationship, making this little excursion of theirs a profitable experiment.

“Thank you, Morgan,” he says again. “I'm glad to have your trust.”


End file.
